


Hey Scud! It's Not A Dud!

by Vengeance7xOver



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vengeance7xOver/pseuds/Vengeance7xOver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whistler took Eric Brooks in when he had no one; taught him how to help himself and raised a fighter. Now as Blade, he's found someone he sees a version of himself in; a sad little boy whose life was swept out from under him. *Written as if the Bloodpack lived, excluding Priest, and the confrontation of Reinhardt went differently. Hinted Blade/Scud. I do not own any Blade characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alternate Path

He tossed the device a ways into the air, hand quick to fetch it safely. From his time spent with the Daywalker these last two years, his loyalties were left undefined and strained. This man, however deemed the villain and a threat to all he knew, had took him in after his near death ; the attack organized by those he trusted to keep him safe. Yet what was he to do? The one known as Blade would be dead by Reinhardt’s hand minutes from now, leaving him to sink back into the cold grasp of Damaskinos.

Whistler shot Eric a sharp look, nodding toward the suckhead and his pet. It was an order, one only the kneeling man and the familiar saw. Blade gave a quick shake of his head, disregarding the task. “Now,” the old man pressed, lips forming a tight line.

“’Now?’ Oh, don’t tell me you two have somethin’ planned to save your sorry asses. It would be such an inconvenience for me,” the suckhead spoke, form turning to finally face the three. “I don’t think we’d want that, now would we?”

Rolling his eyes, Whistler tried to push himself from the ground, managing to kneel a few feet in front of Josh. “Actually, princess, I’d love to.”

“Shut your mouth, poppy,” Scud scolded, eyes glaring… But not in annoyance, not in the defense of the vamp. There was something else there, dripping from his words. It sounded like he was afraid; warning them.

“What’s your problem, ya little shitbird?” the old man snapped, lips raising to a snarl as his eyes met with Josh’s.

“And you’re the ‘good guys?’ Pfft… I’m half-convinced you treated our whore worse than we do,” the man laughed, eying his weakened enemy. He ignored the looks of disgust, pacing his way around the wide, clear space. 

“No one ever could,” Whistler heard the boy say, but Reinhardt appeared oblivious.

“So he was keeping tabs on you all this time, reporting to me all your runs and your weaknesses. But you thought he was just a good little helper, didn’t you? Some poor kid who fell into a world of fear and fighting?”

“I knew,” Blade confessed eyes calm and fixated. “From the time I patched his wounds you’re responsible for, I was onto the fact he was a familiar. Why else would I have agreed to help your kind so quickly? I wanted to find whose he was and rip their throat out.”

“How touching,” Reinhardt cooed coldly, grinning with only half his face. “I almost feel bad you couldn’t.”

“So he’s yours?” Whistler asked, using a near wall to pull himself up. He rested against it, proud to be standing once more. 

“No,” the suckhead smirked. “But he might as well be. He’s Damaskinos’… Straight from the King, gramps. But the King hasn’t much need for him; only every once in a while. And in the meantime? He’s all mine—or Chupa’s—or Lighthammer’s. It all depends on who in the Bloodpack wants a few rounds.” He glanced to the familiar, watching him stalk away behind the two invaders, facing the crimson fountain. “Looks like I upset the whore.”

“ _Eric_ ,” Whistler said, looking to him again. He pushed himself from the wall, staggering for his ally. He made sure to find his eyes before nodding his head in Scud’s direction. ‘Now,’ he mouthed, dropping down beside the man as his weight became too much. Blade looked back toward the fountain; his physique was shaking just enough… He knew the boy was crying.

“No,” he said, shifting both eyes and body away from the old man. 

“What?” the older questioned, reaching out to grab for the detonator the other possessed. “Don’t tell me you’re sparing the little shit.”

“So that was your plan?” Reinhardt called, breaking their conversation. “You were gonna, what, blow the bitch to pieces?” he gave a hearty laugh. “You’d be doing us a favor, Daywalker.”

“Sir…”

Breaking his eyes from the kneeling man’s, he brought them to Josh’s in annoyance. “What is it, pet?”

Scud turned, face clear as if nothing were ever wrong, and approached the vamp with his average gait. “The device they planted on me? I found it – chucked it in the fountain afterwards. They’ve got nothing now,” he reported, bringing himself to stand at his side.

Smiling, Reinhardt turned his attention back to the pair on the floor across the room. “Plan’s fallen through. Looks like I get to continue my fun after all. Scud – Why don’t ya get lost? Go find the Bloodpack and stay there.”

“Yes, sir,” the smaller spoke, keeping his head low as he’d been taught. He started toward the exit, passing between Whistler and Blade before coming to a halt. “Dark Knight…” he started, looking down at the Daywalker. When their eyes met, he decided not to speak and instead shrugged his shoulders heavily, exposing his empty hands.

And Blade _knew_.

“Hey, whoreface, stop stalling; Get out,” Reinhardt called, glare piercing past his shades. He watched as his King’s familiar searched the face of his enemy’s, somewhat surprised to see him suddenly turn to him.

“Not this time.”

Reinhardt opened his mouth to speak.

“Not **ever** again. Go fuck yourself, Reinhardt!”

There was a short, cold laugh from the suckhead before he heard the constant flow of beeping arising from the tail of his coat. His smile faded, head whipping down to check… Sure enough, the device was punched through the fabric, flashing its final warning lights.

Bits of ashy, bloody vamp splattered about the room.

It was utmost satisfying, seeing one of the things that tore him down and reduced him to a toy be thrust apart by the blast he planted; deeply enjoyed the hunks of orangey meat that rained like the confetti in parades he never saw. He felt something seep in, leaving a heavy weight in his chest that he couldn’t place at first; not until the air had settled and the smell of death was all around them. He had nothing now. Even if Damaskinos and the rest of the Bloodpack were killed, there was no chance of making it on the outside. He’d be forever hunted to be killed by the things that raised him since they stole him away when he was ten. He barely knew anything of about having a normal life; couldn’t even name one person who didn’t know about the freaks that owned the night.

“What are you going to do now, kid?” Whistler questioned, as Blade began the painful task of pulling himself off the floor. He was able to stand, joints popping sharply, before the old man received a response.

“Probably end it,” he confessed, lowering his head; another habit to break.

“End it? That asswipe’s dead—why would you—“ he started, cut off by Scud.

“Because there’s still the rest of them! The Bloodpack lives and so does Damaskinos! And if they’re dead? It’ll just be someone else! You know I can never escape this world… Once you’ve seen it, you’re in it for life.”

For once, the old man fell silent. The boy was right; this Hell never ended.


	2. Mistakes

"Why won't you just say where we're going?" Josh pleaded as he was lead through the labyrinth of corridors and damned corpses. "You could've just left me back there; the Bloodpack would've found me, if that's what this is."

"That's _not_ what this is," Blade spoke finally, provoked long enough that his string of silence was strained.

"Yeah, and what _is_ it, kid? You haven't exactly run that by me," Whistler scoffed, rounding the bend after the hybrid. His eyes were narrowed, pace quickened to keep time with able-bodied men.

"There," motioned Blade in return, gloved digit extending toward the exit up the way. It only took them an hour and twenty-seven unconscious vamps to reach it. "Whistler – you take Josh back. There's a section of the exterior filled with blood bank trucks; take one and get out—."

"Why would I take the little shit anywhere? He's a fuckin' familiar, have you forgotten?" retorted the old man, infuriated at the thought. They didn't owe the brat anything.

"Trust me. Now go."

"B—What about you? Don't you need to come back? They took your everything…"

"No. You said they destroyed the workshop, didn't you? There's nothing there for me. Take yourselves to the secondary station; the back up. Lock it down and wait for me."

"Don't tell me you're going for the rest of those asshats—You're not even armed!"

" _Go_ ," Blade pressed, turning away before either could think to argue. He hadn't the time or patience to convince the old man; he'd just have to listen for once.

Even as he walked, slipping down a fresh path and searching the ceiling, silence hung keenly in the coppery air.

"Come on, kid," Whistler mumbled, tugging at the baggy sleeve of Scud's jacket. "Let's find that Godforsaken garage."  
________________________________________  
There wasn't a single movement that Blade allowed to carry into enemy ears. He cascaded into the radiant room, the ceiling cover falling into place with all the racquet of a feather falling to water. It wasn't hard to locate his arsenal from this point in his search: his katana, silver stakes, and assortment of ultra violet weaponry lay piled up to one side of the room, completely unmanned and exposed. Apparently, there were higher priorities in the house of Damaskinos. Grave mistake.

He stashed his belongings where they originally rested, feeling a little less naked now that he had the means to take out whatever crossed paths with him. He left one stake in hand, twirling it in and around the fingers of his left hand as he made his way to the door. When he thrust it open, the two unfortunate suckheads on guard went stumbling with it, lying in piles of ash before they had any clue what stepped out among them.

He rushed down the maze of walls and doors, scanning each space for his objectives. He regularly came across pathetic excuses for vampires, never once feasting his eyes upon larger prey. He wrapped the building in search, winding quickly to the top without leaving a survivor past the weapons room, yet not a trace of ruling body could be found.  
________________________________________  
The truck frame jumped as it crossed each rise and fall of the well-worn road, easing into the speed limit the farther they became from the ivory tower. The silence was killing the both of them, but neither spoke; Scud out of fear of the man, and Whistler out of indifference. They'd been on the road for over an hour, making their way to the prepped warehouse they kept for occasions like such. Whistler had never thought they'd need one, often calling Eric an over paranoid bastard for taking the precautions he thought of as unnecessary.

Scud wanted to ask where this new station was at; wanted to be able to have some sort of clue how much longer it would be before they reached it. He wanted anything to keep his mind from thinking about the situation they found themselves in. Blade wasn't here. He was running through a vamp safe house, either killing or being killed, it was hard to tell. Blade was strong, fast, and held an upperhand to most anyone you cast him beside, but then there was the Bloodpack; they were _trained_ the drain all of those strengths away, built up to fight dirty and to win at all costs.

Guilt brought him to sink lower into the passenger's seat. If he had given it time before he started reporting back to Reinhardt; if he had waited to see that Blade took care of him better than anyone he could remember, he wouldn't have given the suckheads a damn thing. He could've told them that the Daywalker let nothing slip and kept it going until they became suspicious of treason, to which he'd feed them fake weaknesses.

_If only._  
________________________________________  
The monitors spread out before the hybrid gave him a view of the entire structure. Every room was logged with a bird's eye camera, capturing every nook and corner. He walked the line of screens, watching each carefully for movement and figures lurking about. He saw nothing, mostly corpses and blackened bone fragments from his rounds of the place, until he reached the display of the Overlord's Chamber. His eyes met with two figures, both lying on the bloodied carpet, and immediately recognized them as Eli Damaskinos and his daughter, Nyssa… He was too late to finish them off himself, but it brought a new problem to his attention: Jared Nomak.

He turned automatically, continuing through the projections in search of the Bloodpack, only to see nothing of the gang. His gaze hardened, brows furrowing:

Was the Bloodpack still here?

He hadn't the time to mull it over, he had Nomak to find and kill. He swept out of the security room, eyes darting in both directions before he fared right, taking the dimmer lit route.


	3. Lassitude

Skidding away from the rough jolt, Nomak regained his footing fast enough to come firing back at the Daywalker. He had found the reaper making his way through the entrance court, ready to disappear into the fading night, when he whirled around, growling faintly at his presence. He’d been steps away from making it out untouched; _mere steps_ before the hybrid arrived, driving a stake through his shoulder just for the satisfaction of it. He’d howled in pain, stumbling that much closer to the exit before yanking the damned thing out, instantly repairing himself.

“What’s in this for you anymore, Daywalker?” Jared snapped, his raspy voice carrying heavily through the open space. “Damaskinos is--.”

“Dead. I know,” Blade replied, side-stepping the half-loaded blow. After killing the two in the Overlord’s Chamber, Nomak’s fighting had become brash, easy to anticipate and miss. “That doesn’t mean the fight is through. I have to ensure the reaper strain ends here.”

Bringing his hands up and behind his head, the katana blade was slid from its sheath, waved out to his front. With a hearty laugh, Nomak turned from his failed assault to face his foe. “Kill me, eh? With what? There isn’t a sun in sight and that--,” he gave a gesture to the sword held in clenched hands, “will do little more than pinch.”

“You’re very confident in that, it seems,” came the reply, unphased by the arrogance the other held. He earned a smirk from the creature before him. “But confidence leaves you vulnerable, reckless. And then your guard is this down? It allows your death by my sword to come quick.”

“You’re all talk tonight,” Nomak teased, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t ya, princess?” He thrust one foot from the tiled floor, cracking the surface as he acquired an inhuman pace in a matter of seconds.

And Blade was off all the same, charging the first of the reaper kind with solace on his side. He hadn’t expected Nomak to be so ignorant to the elements of his own demise, yet how would he not? No one cracked a creature open for him, exposing the vulnerable side of his bone-encased heart. All he knew was light; the UV radiation that burst his insides to flames… And that’s all he needed to know.

When at the peak of his rush toward the other, Blade brought himself to a slide by the knees and shins of his uniform, thrusting the katana up through the side of his chest. The action had been sudden before they were apart again, breaking his hold on the prized blade without the chance to tear it back. He tucked under himself, rolling onto his feet before his movement finally ceased. 

Wide eyed and sputtering, Nomak collapsed onto the cool tile, sword buried to the hilt in his heaving chest. The end of the blade stuck out through his shoulder, the fiery glow peeking out from the torn fabric as he began his death. 

Blade’s first instinct was to watch the being die, if only to ensure his fate, but thoughts of the suckheads he’d misplaced gnawed at him. They weren’t in the building that he saw; not in any portion he could ever get past at least. There were the slightest of chances they were cowering here, waiting for him to disappear.

And he planned to.

Just after one thing.

\-------------------------------------  
As soon as the truck was parked in the shed behind the warehouse, Scud was fumbling for the door handle, eager to leave the vehicle for anything of comfort. He slammed the door, quick strides bringing him from the small shelter out into the rain.

“What’s the rush, wonder boy, sick of me already?” Whistler called out, sliding from the driver’s seat.

“I’m just tired,” Josh called back, voice fighting to surpass the drumming on the tin roof. As he stopped to face the elder, his already weighted coat grew heavier as it slicked with rain. “Are there beds or somethin’?”

Staring out from the cool, dry retreat, Whistler checked over the boy curiously. Even through the deluge that had followed them for a mile, he could see his eyes had grown dark, though he knew not that it was due to remorse and stress over lassitude. “Bed’s inside, right off the main room,” he answered.

“Thanks,” Scud returned, heading back for the building. He tried to clear his mind, keep it off the day for the third hour in a row as he pushed through the door. Ignoring the surroundings, though near the same as they were at the previous station, he looked up long enough to find the entrances to the bedrooms, settling into the first one he found. 

After securing the tin slide door onto the front of the shed, Whistler limped forth to the warehouse, locking up the man door instinctively. As he finished, hand coming to a still on the padlock, he listened to the deafening silence that had hung like a cloud since leaving Eric behind. The building was as quiet as the approaching hand of death, and had the same maddening effect. He glanced toward the bedrooms without thought, mind reeling; he should make his peace with the kid. If _Eric_ , the man who had zero tolerance for familiars and suckheads, offered this boy to stay, he had to be true; he had to be worthy. He realized he wasn’t there for _years_ , and in that time, any number of things could’ve sparked a unity in two people who saw few others they didn’t kill.

But he wouldn’t bother him until he rested. After a day like this, they all needed a break.  
\-------------------------------------  
He felt the heat erupt behind him, waves fanning out to warm the back of his head and neck. He climbed into one of the spare trucks, turning over the engine and feeling it rumble to life beneath his heavy boots. Orange and yellow danced in his darkened shades as he pulled away from the garage, heading for the highway beyond. There was only one place left to go before any form of ease would set in and he intended to be there in less than human timing. He wasn’t sure if there was anything left to fear; not for himself, but for his vulnerable companions. He could handle whatever burst through the night, he was sure, yet there was still this apprehension clawing thick in his chest; it was one thing he hadn’t experienced for ages. 

He wasn’t sure exploding the house of Damaskinos would prove effective enough.


	4. It's You and Me, Buttercup

“You get the fuck away from there, ya shithead!” Whistler yelled, neck craning toward the doorway.

\----------------------------------------

In under an hour, the Daywalker stepped down from the blood bank truck parked six blocks away from his destination by the river. Dawn had just begun to peek through the thick, dark clouds that packed into the city sky, its presence useless in slowing the incessant downpour. The streets had lined with hundreds of office drones, all only awake enough to fuel their road rage. It was pointless to continue pursuing this route; it would double his arrival time.

He slipped into the alley of a tax center and an attorney’s office, unmissed by the blaring town car horns and coffee-guzzling homo-sapiens. Winding through the stone labyrinth, littered with the snoozing homeless and collections of runaway garbage, he stopped short of the city’s outskirts.

 

Very few buildings here were above the state of crumbling, narrowing the search for shelter the six years ago they’d come here. It seemed a lifetime since that day, but he could still remember the old man’s words, the very structure they’d stood on before as he was chewed a new one for paranoia. 

Paranoia that saved their asses today.

Running the river bank, legs pumping hard, he still dared not a sound. If he let his boots thud against the ground, Whistler would open fire the moment he entered without hesitance. They knew better than to trust a sound even in the light of day; enemies were endlessly deceitful. 

Blade gripped tight to the overhang of the warehouse, hauling himself up to the thick glass skylight. He grabbed for the heavy handle, grip loosening as his eyes stumbled over a baffling spectacle. 

No glare from the arising morn scattered over the reflective surface, nor was the grime of local industry blown over by eastward winds that had previously been there for decades.

He cocked his head curiously only a moment before adrenaline set in.

The skylight was shattered.

Not but a second after everything fell into place did he hear the shouts from below, confirming every one of his suspicions.

“I said back up, nipplehead!”

There wasn’t a single doubt that was Whistler.

“You’re not in a position to make the orders, gramps.” 

And, unfortunately, not a one that that was Chupa either.

\-------------------------------

Struggling against the vices that held him tight, his eyes bore into the side of Chupa’s shaved head. “Who asked you, ya blood-clot whore?” he grumbled, watching the suckhead raise his hand to reprimand. 

Before the palm struck his face, the hand on his forearm was ripped away in a whirling black mass. Not looking a gift horse in the face, Whistler brought his attention to the vice at his left, feeling it loosen almost instantly.

“Daywalker!” came Verlaine’s panicked shout, stumbling away in disbelief; this wasn’t part of the plan. “Light’amma’!” She turned, darting for the door her partner lay just beyond. This had to be reported.

“Get her,” spoke the familiar voice Whistler hoped to hear. And that’s all the instruction he needed. With a nod, the old man stepped up into the center platform, his hand smacking down on the security switch. It was one of the few systems they had the right mind to put in from the start, knowing if they were desperate enough to show up here, they’d need _something_ in place to ready themselves. It consisted of emergency drop doors made of pure, thick silver of which would collapse in place by a pull-belt system. Overhead, UV activation lights flashed a steady, drawn out beat, scorching any intruder tauntingly. 

The violent hiss he heard brought his head up, bringing him to watch as Verlaine scurried, back hunched forward, to the only section of shelter the broad vicinity allowed.

_Perfect._

He killed the warning lights, smirking as the red-head triggered a minor trap he’d set not but minutes before the Bloodpack had arrived. Shrieking with shock, Verlaine was flung from the concrete floor into the air, ropes of iron swooping around her, soon followed by a secondary, looser set of confines she didn’t hesitate to identify as silver; the stakes of barbed metal gave it away.

“The fu--,” Chupa cried, seeing the blur of black and red soar across the way. He snapped his attention back to Blade above him on the ground, struggling against the pin. Smoke coiled up from his burn splotched face, the UV alert lights having caught him scarce times. His hands left the hybrid’s shoulders, forming for his throat, growling through clenched teeth.

“You ghosted Reinhardt, sunshine? It that true?” he demanded, eyes wide with rage. “Have you chalked up the death tolls? It’s time for casualties on _your_ side, Daywalker!”

_So close,_ Blade thought; his everything was just an inch out of reach. As a counter instead, he brought his own hands to the vamp’s face, shoving his head harshly down at the concrete as his oxygen ran low; repeated. The grip at his throat faltered for merely a moment.

That’s all he needed.

Thrusting himself up off the ground, he hauled the startled Chupa with him and, in one mighty effort, swung the creature outward, relishing in the contact he made against the rafters above.

Chupa groaned, more out of disgust than agony. 

“Chupa—,” came a whisper from the side. Verlaine. “How the fuck do we warn the others? The beast had us trapped.”

Shaking his head in confidence, the blond smirked, “Not for long. I’ll get you down somehow; you take out that old man and raise the doors. I’ll take cupcake.”

Pulling himself from the cratered steel rafter he found himself on, Chupa hopped down to his adversary’s level. There was a fire in his eyes that hadn’t been there before that last assault; there was a plan now, a reasonable one, so long as neither of them fucked it up.

“Come on, chicken shit, let’s see what’s up now,” he bellowed from his stance of the room. He took slow, easing steps toward Blade, taunting him to charge first; and that’s why he was the brawn of the ‘Pack. He didn’t know better than to test the hybrid’s patience, wouldn’t count on the Daywalker’s tolerance to stretch beyond more level-headed humans. 

“Yes,” came the reply. “Let’s.” 

It didn’t take but a few extra steps for the muscle to come flying at him, a rebel yell distilling the air around. Blade kept his footing, jolting into the air as Chupa moved to strike. With his foe startlingly no longer there, he brought his attention upward, seeing the figure cascading backward—and away from him. 

_Damnit,_ Chupa cursed, thrusting his hand up for the Daywalker. His fingers met with something ribbed and sturdy, bringing the grin over his lips at his luck.

_The katana._


	5. Der Dunkel Ritter, Der Retter

Closing the cool, callused hand over the hilt of the enemy blade, Chupa swiped it from its sheath, turning it over in his hands as the Daywalker landed on his feet. 

“Lose somethin’?” he taunted, switching off the spikes that sprang from the piece; Reinhardt had warned them off all those little tricks. “I’ll take good care of her, don’t you worry, buttercup.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Blade replied, mockery in his deep voice. “Good luck getting it past the security clearance to Hell.” With a sharp take off, he came barreling for the suckhead. He was moving before he had a plan of action, watching Chupa raise his own precious weapon around before he tore his eyes away; he knew what the vamp would do.

Fortunately, he had an idea himself.

The katana was slung overhead before his arms wrapped around Chupa’s torso, bodies jolting backward as they tipped with impact.

Verlaine braced herself in the confinements, the sword whirling overhead to fight the restraints. There was a clean sheen of collision and a short yelp as the descent startled her, despite her preparations. 

Chains cascading around her, she tumbled to the ground, the concrete giving way beneath her harsh landing. Shaking off the dusty bits of pavement, she brought her physique to straighten, the cracks of rearranging audible to everyone bothering enough to acknowledge her. Giving a small sigh of relief, she turned to set her sights on the old man, settling them first upon her comrade.

“Chupa!” she cried, eyes locking with his as he was thrust beneath the skylight. Screaming, the vamp’s skin tainted orange, mouth and eyes aglow as he began to burn. He choked for darkness, pawing at the hands holding his useless throat tight under the rising sun. Hissing filled the air, blackened chunks crumbling to the dirtied floor.

Eyes fixating back to Whistler, she began to seethe, chest falling and rising sharply in pure rage, creating the illusion she needed to breathe. “You’re dead!” she screamed, crossing the open gap and leaping past the table separating the two. Her hands grabbed for the shoulders of his coat, pinning his squirming figure roughly to the cool floor. “Party’s over, jackass! Sure was fun,” she taunted quietly, gums tingling with anticipation. Her head dipped down, k-9’s ghosting over the skin of his neck.

“I’ll make sure this--!”

Verlaine screamed the short time she could, the silver bullets in her jaw and chest doing wonders for Whistler. Shoving her off, he worked his way to his feet again, not caring enough to pay mind to her pleading form that begged for life, begged for Lighthammer, and clutched to the table top for balance.

“Eric,” he called, watching him dust the ash from his gloved hands. He knelt to retrieve his katana, oncing it over before it returned to its sheath. “Good shot.”

“What’d you expect?” the Daywalker asked, one side of his mouth forming a sly smile. “Disable the system. I’ll set out this evening to find the others.”

“The _others_?”

“If I’m right, there are two more; Snowman and Lighthammer. This isn’t over until they’re dead,” Blade explained, glancing about the room. “Where’s Josh?”

“Fuck--!” came the old man’s reply, limping to the structure controls to disable the security doors. 

“Something I should know?” asked the hybrid, raising a brow. Don’t tell me they took him.

“The door that bitch ran for; those two ass clowns are holed up in there. That’s where the boy was before they showed up. Haven’t heard a damn thing since they went in.”

“And I’m being told this _now_?” asked Blade, voice dripping with annoyance. He wasn’t sure why he’d saved the boy, but to let Whistler accidentally kill him wasn’t the reason, he was sure, but he couldn’t fault the man; there had been other concerns.

“Sorry, slipped my mind between being beaten by the blond brawn and the red-headed witch,” Whistler called, watching the other stalk to the bedroom doors. “Second one from the left.”

Both guns drawn, held tight in angered hands, he kicked in the small door. His sights immediately waved to line up with the adversaries that jumped at his presence, zoning out everything but his marks. He knew what they all were capable of, but it never ceased to disgust him. As he clamped trained fingers onto each trigger, the phrase ‘shooting fish in a barrel came to mind.’ They hadn’t a clue he was coming, and when their eyes fixated on the ones behind the dark, masking shades, they were too far gone.


	6. Shadows of the Past

It seemed sudden; the change of pace the moment took. He was sure it happened in the blink of an eye, but couldn’t be sure, as his own were shut tight at the time. He had grown new to the pain again; the torture overcame his small figure more than he thought it ever would again. He had believed he would forever be dull to agony, never again to know the suffering he was taught as a child, but this night had been a wake-up call. Two years had robbed him of the wall he’d built up around his pain; two years of being cared for and safer than he ever remembered to date.

When the commotion around him faded, the warm bits of ash settling around his sprawled out form, he began to shake. His own breathing caught his ears, heavy and quivering from his strained lungs. He felt like he was ten years old again, pulling his legs up to block out everything; to hide himself from the man pinned in the doorway. He couldn’t even look up at the Daywalker, embarrassment painting his face as he’d seemingly proved himself vulnerable and fragile once more; a drawback for the good guys; more bother than he’s worth. He’d thought it all countless times over the span he’d spent here, feeling himself to create one clumsy blunder after the other. He shuffled his legs, pushing them one at a time away from himself and back, trying to stray far from the door and the burnt piles of crispy suckheads. He tumbled backward off the bed as he met the edge with a yelp of surprise. He landed hard against the concrete floor, whimpering as new scratches were added by the fall. Squeezing his eyes closed, he wished to bring his hands to his face, as if to hide his entire being in the callused palms; he strained the bit he could against the binds holding his hands behind his back, feeling them dig into the rough ground below him.

Though he heard not a sound, he knew Blade began to approach; if there was one thing he’d acquired over time, it was the capability of sensing the man’s strong, prominent presence to him. He rolled onto his side, one leg pulled higher atop the other to cover what he could before he felt the eyes hit him, felt the movement cease. 

“Josh…” he heard, thankful to hear the voice again. Despite what it had been previously in the years of being a familiar under Damaskinos and the brief assortment of weaker masters, the voice of the Daywalker was soothing to him; the sound of safety after being drug into perdition. 

It was a sign that what was to fear was dead.

Despite everything, he wouldn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to have to face the ash piles around him or the blood and fluids on the bed sheets or any looks that might be pasted on the hybrid’s usually solace face. In time, he’d chalk this up to a bad dream instead of a distant memory, as he had every instance of his life since the day he took the hand of the vampire nightmare.

“Come on,” came the voice again, closer now as he felt blankets wrap over his curled up form. Strong arms pulled him up into the armor-clad chest, silently carrying him to an untold location as his breathing grew closer to normal.

Softness; that was the next thing he felt. His eyes cracked open, expecting to be met with the harsh light of an exposed incandescent bulb. Instead, he found darkness mingled with the fading illumination spilling in from the closing door. 

“B--?” he called softly, voice scratchy from the previous strain. “Are you with me?”

“I’m here,” came the deep reply as the room was plunged into a black abyss. There was a small amount of shuffling and the light sound of water before he felt hands against the skin under the blankets, pulling away the fabric. Being rolled onto his side briefly, he felt relief flood through his wrists as they were freed from the restraints the intruders had tied taut there. Blood flow began coursing fully through his hands again as he brought them to his sides, being laid once more on his back.

Scud was thankful for the darkness now, understanding the reasoning behind it. What was to come was something difficult for both of them, he was sure, but at least one of them could be helped. The gloom would mask him from seeing the procedure, tricking him into feeling the Daywalker was, too, blinded to it, working in sightless accuracy. He knew it was a lie, that his assortment of the vampire strengths he possessed included 20/20 even in the shadiest places, but he could pretend for the time being.

A warm wash cloth surprised him, running over his bare chest. He could actually feel the difference between the bits of clear, pale skin the damp rag had been drawn over and the majority with ash smeared in ranging consistency. He closed his eyes, unable to do anything else, and thanked the fact that the water that dampened the cloth was warm; it seemed to erase the memories of the cold hands that had held him painfully tight and sickeningly soft just minutes earlier.

They went about in silence, save for the occasional whimper from the smaller man as a bruising, cut, or scratched patch burned when run over by the stroke of the rag. His chest was soon clean, followed by his arms and fronts of his legs. If it weren’t for his terrors that would surely follow, Scud would’ve been asleep by now, lulled by the quiet work of warmth over his body, and he was on the verge la la land when the sound startled him.

“Turn over.”

There was a hint of question in the two words, making it less of a command than Blade’s usual conversations were. Hand taking a fistful of the covers stretched over the neatly made bed beneath the ones that he’d previously been wrapped up in, he pulled himself over onto his stomach, groaning as his over worked muscles were pulled tighter than he’d hoped. 

A soft hush broke the string of whimpers as he began to quietly sob, every inch of him searing and throbbing with what he’d hoped never happened again. It surprised him at first; it was out of character for something like that to leave those lips; a _vampire killer hushing_ him, a _trembling puddle_ of _familiar scum._

“B- - B,” he stuttered, hiccupping between attempts. He had to know why he hadn’t killed him back at Damaskinos’… Now might not have been the best time, but he didn’t know if Blade would be there when he got around to an appropriate one; he had a habit of disappearing.

“Don’t worry,” the Daywalker spoke, his voice quieter than he’d expected. “You’ll be alright here. There’s no one left to hurt you, Josh.”


	7. The Safety Plan

“He alright?” called Whistler, stepping down from the platform. He eyed the younger, watching him work the dry, bloodied rag over his bare hands.

“He’s alive,” Blade called, relieved he could say as much. “But he’s banged up pretty bad. We’ll have to keep a close eye, in case he slips into something; there’s no telling what effect this could have on his mental state. Shock, depression, suicide… They’re all very likely outcomes.” 

“I can set up an inner monitoring system… We can keep tabs no matter where either of us are at,” the old man offered. “Though we might also remember that he can come out of this the same as before, but I wouldn’t dare call that normal.”

“We’re a warehouse full of vampire killers and UV weapon developers; we’re _all_ pretty far from ‘normal.’”

Whistler gave a small smirk, pushing away from the step he’d stopped on. “You make me a list of all the places to monitor… I’ll have them made up and set in a day’s time.”

“A day? You’re slackin’ off, old man,” Blade scolded tauntingly, shaking his head. A day was more than acceptable, given the broad task, but it suited the purpose. The more time they spent hovering over the boy, the more uncomfortable they’d drive him to be. They couldn’t risk Scud finding out they were keeping close watch in the case he could hide himself away and control what they saw and what they didn’t. They could start to lose him without even knowing.

\--------------------------------

The heavy door pulled open, slipping a stream of light over the pitch black room. “Eric, out here,” Whistler requested quietly, careful of the restful figure in bed. 

Blade nodded, standing up from his chair at the far corner of the room. He slid past the cracked entrance, automatically pushing it shut again.

“I’ve set up the seven out here; the four corners, his workshop, mine, and the rest area. I have three more ready to install in both his room and the bathroom.”

“Bathroom?”

Whistler shrugged. “Most suicides are attempted in bathrooms where there are multiple options to carry through with. I’m just being thorough.”

“Alright. I can get him out of the room, maybe get some food in him. Be quick though; I don’t know how long it’ll be before he comes back.”

“Pick up a few things for me while you’re in town, won’t you?” Whistler asked, toying with one of the small cameras.

“’In town?’”

“Yeah, _in town_ ,” the old man chuckled. “Are you outta it today or what, kid? There’s not a lick to eat in this place. You’ll have to make a run.”

“Shit.” Shaking his head, he turned back to the room, leaving the light and amused old man outside. Going into town was hard enough on his own, what with his charming people skills and welcoming presence, let alone with _him_ , one of equally horrific social problems who could raise curiosity from surrounding beings.

“Josh,” he said quietly, shaking at the younger’s shoulder. A small hum of wake rose from the half-asleep form before his hand was swatted away in protest.

Rolling his eyes, the Daywalker rounded the bed to the side Scud laid on, crouching by him to try again.

“Josh,” came the name again, this time bringing weary eyes open to look lazily unto Blade, questioning the rousal in a haze of light, piercing blue.

“Morning,” was Scud’s raspy reply, pushing the bed sheets from his side to free his arm. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s hardly morning, but I figured you ought to eat before too long,” he replied, releasing the boy’s shoulder.

“I won’t protest to that.”

“Good. I’ll go grab you some clothes and we’ll head out.”

“We’re going out?” Scud asked, beginning to sit up. He shivered as the fallen sheet exposed more skin.

“Is that a problem?”

“No… Of course not,” Scud assured.

\----------------------------------

After departing from the warehouse, taking one of the custom cars they’d stashed that they refueled with siphoned gas from the blood truck, the ride was silent. The bustle of early night kept Josh awake in the passenger’s seat, staring out and counting the number of glyphs he saw. There were a few he recognized, as some of them were once inked into his pale flesh, but whited off with each new master; there was Danica Talos, Demitri Gale, the late Deacon Frost, Martin Sharp, and countless ones no one told him about. But most importantly, there was Damaskinos’, only able to be seen at morphed angles.

He shrunk back into his seat as one of the Overlord’s safe houses flashed by, his stomach knotting with what felt like anticipation. He couldn’t believe they were dead; the whole damn line of them. Maybe that’s why he was uneasy… Anyone who knew Damaskinos knew of him, his task, his importance. It wouldn’t take long for any one of the foul beasts to catch up to them, no matter how far they ran.


	8. Fears Catch Up Too Soon

He was slowly pulled from his mind as the passing views became unfamiliar. Illegal housing units formed from desolate warehouses were replaced by two-story suburban homes, bustling street corners exchanged for reflective stop signs. He stared out in wonder, curious as to where everyone was, what they were doing inside at this hour. Shouldn’t they be out already, tending to their affairs and employers? Weren’t there any blood-rave joints to rush off to before they got filled up? Where—

Scud tore his eyes from the window, lowering his head to look to his shaky hands. Of course there wasn’t anything lurking about, no places to run to; this was a living neighborhood. None of them were aware of the fanged nocturnal monsters’ existence not but a mile over, or the parties they set up to satisfy their kind. They lived blind to the glyphs that painted many of their country’s walls; deaf to the conditions it hollowly promised their loyal servants. What he wouldn’t give to be so naïve again.

The next time he looked up, the sights were growing gloomy again, more familiar. Graffiti littered buildings that were beginning to crumble from neglect, but a few structures remained, bright and active with here and there business. It was the human’s slum district, more than likely, as it teemed with business that catered to needs the cold-blooded didn’t have. Burger joints and Ma-and-Pop shops scattered the debris-ridden streets, supplying late-night services to the slew of addicts looking to fulfill their cravings in the darkest hours. 

“Josh--!”

“Hmm--!” Scud jumped at the hand on his arm, snapping his head toward the man behind the wheel. He blinked several times, glancing about at the motionless scene around him before he noticed the bright lights of a diner out the windshield ahead. He hadn’t even noticed they’d stopped. 

“Come on, we’re going inside,” Blade said, looking him over curiously.

Scud only nodded, sitting still with brows furrowed for a moment, wondering over how long they’d sat here. He had been so sure it was all still sliding by, each building he saw different from the last, but in the end, maybe his head had just been putting him in circles. 

Slowly, he pulled the seatbelt away from his chest, reaching for the handle with hazed senses. He pushed at the door, it never seeming to swing wide enough to stay open until a gloved hand took hold of it, keeping it in place. 

“Come on,” came the familiar voice, free hand extended to the disoriented boy. “We’ll get you some food.”

“Thanks…” Scud replied, quietly taking the offered open palm. Blade hauled him up and watched as he stammered to his feet upon letting go, swaying like a drunkard on a week’s worth of a bender. The scarce stars above him jumped and swirled like a Van Gogh painting without any warning, the ground below seeming to pitch and swell under his feet like a raging sea, destined to swallow him whole. His eyes widened in surprise, the unexpected inaccuracy of his perception sending a shot of pain behind his weary eyes. Part of him addressed it as the effect of the Bloodpack’s rounds on him, knew this had happened on too numerous occasions when he was first stolen away into the life of slavery to forget; but there was that part in the back of his mind that refused to let it be that simple, a nagging voice that promised him insanity and imbalance from so much in so little time.

And like a switch, everything grounded; the perplexed and, dare he call it, worried face of the Daywalker breaking through the blur. The voices, however faint as they were before, faded entirely as if they never spoke, and the world seemed so much more vivid than it had a few moments ago. He swallowed hard, unsure if he was even awake or not.

“You alright?” the hybrid asked, and it took Josh a moment to register both his hands on his shoulders. “Should we go?”

“No—No. I’m fine,” he said, honestly believing it for a moment. “Let’s just… Let’s go eat.”

Blade hesitated before nodding skeptically, easing his grip from the smaller’s shoulders. “Alright,” he said, taking a step back. “Don’t forget to close the door.”

Moving to the side and swinging the door closed, Scud wore the faintest of smiles. Episode after episode and B was still this casual with him, caring over things like car doors and diner burgers; it helped him feel a bit more at ease with the whole bloody situation. He couldn’t control the disoriented nonsense his head had created, and that alone ate him alive; he didn’t need _someone_ to aid in the process.

They settled into two stools at the end of the counter, Scud glancing over a well-worn menu for anything that sounded even vaguely appetizing to the acute emptiness that filled his gut. Anything that wasn’t coated in grease should due, which unfortunately excluded over half the list, so he decided on pancakes before playing mute with the middle-aged waitress; he pointed simply to what he wanted, earning a faint smile from the woman before she bustled away, slapping his order into the kitchen window with a small call.

Scud crossed his arms over the counter top, resting his head low on them. His eyes wandered the faces here and there, a few meeting his glance curiously before he was able to look away.

He didn’t jump this time as the hand clasped down on his shoulder; Blade had been doing that a lot lately. But when he glanced over, he was surprised to see the Daywalker looking on to something behind them, half turned in his seat, as well as the pale digits encircling the fabric of his coat.

“Long time, no see, Scud-boy,” came a dark voice he couldn’t place, so he turned, the features of an elegant face doing him no favors. The woman before him smiled closed-lipped, her deep brown eyes holding an alarming load of amusement. “Don’t you remember me?”

Furrowing his brow, Josh looked to Blade, the man curtaining a lost look only practiced eyes could see. Perhaps then, this woman was no threat, but rather someone he simply couldn’t remember. She seemed to raise no obvious suspicion in the Daywalker, as any suckhead or their servant would, so it seemed innocent enough. He cleared his throat, swallowing hard as he returned his gaze to hers.

“I’m afraid not, miss…” he said quietly, beginning to gnaw at his inner cheek.

“Miss?” she chuckled, head tilting back in the slightest fashion. A reflection of light caught his eye, dropping his guts that much farther; he’d been right the first time to be fearful. A threat. “That’s _ma’am_ to you; I see they taught you no respect for your elders in that House, _pet._ ”


	9. Fate in Numbers

She had spat the words with such venom Scud had winced, but he could’ve passed it off as blatant flagrant pain as she ripped him from the stool, leaving him to pool to the unkempt floor. His eyes immediately opened wide in search for Blade, startled upon seeing him, too, snatched from his seat by four barrel-armed blood addicts that had formerly occupied the space as mere bums. He recognized one of them, for whatever reason unknown to him, in a split second, unable to register a name. The woman above whirled around to him, combat boot striking his forehead. The back of his head slammed against the tiled floor, and he wasn’t sure if those were florescent lights or exploding stars behind his eyelids. 

_Ben—_

Her strike came again as he tried to lift his head, this time catching his mouth. The tile cracked as he hit down once more, wondering if that mangled cry was his.

_Benjiman Ro—_

The familiar taste of copper filled his mouth, his lips split and tongue bit. The name was right there, on the very tip of that bleeding muscle. 

_Benjiman Roanin._

_The boy he grew up with as a familiar._

He swallowed hard, wincing as he tried to roll over, away from the looming vamp. To his surprise, she didn’t strike again, but merely watched curiously as he brought himself to his knees.

“What’s ‘a matter, sweetheart? It’s a family reunion,” she cooed, glancing away. His eyes followed, skipping over Benjiman for Blade. There was one of his own stakes buried into his side, another sticking out from his left shoulder. His chest heaved with strained breathing, figure shuttering in the slightest fashion in icy arms. He wasn’t used to seeing the Daywalker beaten in any sense of the word, though it wasn’t entirely new, and so he was frozen at his crouch, eyes transfixed in horror. Had he broken his sight away, had he not let it get to him, he would’ve seen it coming and been able to dodge it; instead, the kick to his temple sent him toppling over once more. “Hey--! Are you fucking deaf, _pet_?”

“N-no,” he stuttered out before he could help it; force of habit, one he thought he’d lost over his time with the hybrid.

“That’s what I thought. Now, up,” she beckoned, pleased to see him clamber to his feet. He hadn’t changed, she was well aware of this; he was still the obedient, scared little boy he’d been before. _Pathetic._

“I always did like your real name better; I hate that stupid joke Damaskinos’ House gave you. _Scud._ You do know what that is right?” she quizzed, stepping in careful, clacking strides around the gently shaking form.

On cue, he shook his head. Just like ever before.

“You’re expendable, Josh; a pawn in the big leagues. You get in, collect what they want, Blade finds out, probably kills you, and guess what? We still win. You’re _Scud, the Disposable Assassin,_ though you’re one sorry excuse for an assassin,” she spat with the same smirk she had years before, one of the corners of her lips coiling up her pale face. “You’re death has never had potential to hold meaning.”

He hesitated; nearly bit his tongue before he subtly remembered one key thing here.

He didn’t belong to her.

Not anymore.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Priscilla,” came his half-cocked reply, foreign on his tongue. It was quieter than he’d hoped, more desperate, but Hell if it wasn’t something.

He felt the cold seep in from behind, his spine shivering as he felt her presence stronger than before. “What,” she seethed over him, her breath ruffling his brown locks. “Was that, you little stray?”

He stared into the dusty, shattered tile, eyes dilating back and forth as fear and strength battled for dominance. There had only been two cases before in which he dared to rebel; once as a child the very first time he was ordered by a suckhead, and another at the House of Damaskinos in which resulted in the explosion of Reinhardt. The first instance he’d been brutally beaten into terrified submission, the second time it had allowed him to escape with his life. And here, teetering on a third go, equip with no bomb, no exit, not even the Daywalker he had grown to depend on, he also didn’t face the possibility of the wrath of a master. All he knew he had were the seconds ticking away on a Coca-Cola wall clock, each one faster than the last.

“The only reason I’m a stray,” came his shaky, bitter voice that caught even the hybrid off guard. “Is because you stole a ten-year-old boy from the alley on his way home from school. You look to me with disgust and annoyance, but I never asked to be where I was; you put me there! You can call me what you want, but it’s no fault but your own-- You’ve caused your own problem!”

It was welling up now; fourteen years of silent agony and rage boiling to a peak. His callused and cut hands were rolled into tight fists, shaking ever in the slightest as he raised his head. His eyes fell to Blade, injured in the arms of ex-familiars by his own weapons. His shades had fallen to the floor, kicked into the corner in a quarrel, and his eyes were set on Josh in what might have been surprise; as always, the expression was dull, only partially exposed from the pain radiating through his damaged body.

And there it was, the memory that was the key to his escape. His hand fell to the side pocket of his baggy jeans, chest melting as it formed around a forgiving shape… There as something after all.

“Your names don’t even sting anymore; they lost their venom by the third suckhead to use me. Try as you might, the names just don’t stick. All your efforts to control me are for nothing. When you came in, I had no idea who you were. With each new master, I forgot my last, just as you deserve. All you are is a sex-driven, blood-lusting animal. You’re all the same, all fangs and terror over others so you can sit in your ivory towers and play princess, controlling a race of humans that are more than you’ll ever be,” he spat, glancing to the seething being behind. He smiled, though it felt cracked and worn. Maybe it was killing Reinhardt that had done him in good, or perhaps it was the final act of dominance the Bloodpack had carried out on him before they lie as ash, but he didn’t feel as sane as he hoped. His began counting down inside, wonder if, when he reached one, he’d be back or past the point of no return. 

**Zehn.**

“All those years.”

**Neun.**

“I’m never getting back.”

**Acht.**

“I was beaten.”

**Sieben.**

“I was raped.”

**Sechs.**

“For no reason.”

**Fünf.**

“Other than your amusement.”

**Vier.**

“There’s no excuse.”

**Drei.**

“You deserve this fate.”

**Zwei.**

“I’ll love watching you burn.”

**Eins.**

“Priscilla.”

**Null.**


	10. Diagnostics

Scud opened his eyes, the bright white still clouding over his vision as he stood, arms outstretched in both directions. The grenades he held dropped to the floor, out of UV juice, and his limbs smacked to his sides. He was vaguely aware of the movement behind him, the weakened Daywalker taking his thirst administration with a sharp intake of breath as his small machine fed out the inhalant. 

Lulling his head to look to the floor, he found nothing; no signs of Priscilla standing there, having patronized him for what he was. No. Instead she was streaks of ash, blown away and left splattered over the diner window. He’d have smiled once more at the sight, had he been about to think straight. His head began an encore of spinning, his ears ringing with the UV detonations. His temples throbbed with a wave of persistent agony he hadn’t had before the flash. He raised a lazy hand to the back of his skull, feeling the trickle come down over his palm.

_Fuck._

His eyes fluttered closed, rolling back as his body fell slack to the busted tile below. Through his muffled, incoherent hearing, as his head met with the floor one last time, there was a faint cry of his name, and everything was dead as night.

***

“Josh--!” came the holler from across the way, the administration falling from his mouth. Strength coursed through him, pushing him to his feet and carrying him to the collapsed, lax boy.

A thousand thoughts raced at once; asses his injuries now, wake him up instead, get him to Whistler, find a doctor, get him to a hospital, let him go… He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, sighing heavily through his nose. He’d never had this problem before; Whistler had made sure of that. But here he was, knelt at the side of _Damaskinos’ Disposable Assassin,_ pulling him into his ashen arms in some hope of revival. He was swift to whisk him outside into the heart of night, laying his form across the back seat. He slid behind the wheel soon after, tearing out of the parking lot in a blaze of tail lights as his mind flicked through countless destinations. Street lamps illuminated the cab in strobes of light, reminding him of his neglected sunglasses still resting in the corner of the diner. He cast his gaze down as a glistening of his jacket sleeve caught his eye; the blood smeared over his arm where Josh’s head had lain brought his boot firmly onto the accelerator, eyes cast homeward. 

***

“Can’t ya open the goddamn door by yer’self?” Whistler called, limping to the oversized truck door. He unraveled the thick chain, throwing open the metal slat with a powerful thrust to the side. “Eri--.”

Whistler fell quiet, his eyes brought to Blade standing out in the dim industrial night light, his arms full with the curled up familiar form.

“What happened?” came his immediate bounce back, slipping to the side. The hybrid stepped in, eyes on the old man as he shoved the entrance closed.

“I’ll explain in a bit. He needs medical attention.”

“The fuck you standin’ around for then?”

***

Whistler pushed open the bedroom door, a small stack of transparent film papers held in a taut grasp. Even in the pitch black that swallowed the room, he knew precisely where to find the Daywalker; tucked in the corner nearest the occupied mattress, having been unmoved every check-in the old man made.

He hesitated to speak, the silence hanging like a porcelain doll on the edge of a shelf; to shatter it seemed a crime. “I’ve got good news for once,” he said, voice strained with forced optimism. “His head wasn’t cracked; brain’s not the one bleedin’. His scans read no permanent damage, so we can rule out any memory loss or dementia-like effects. That’s somethin’.” Blade was quiet, the only sign he was actually there was a labored sigh of frustration he breathed through his nose.

“Why’d he pass out?” came the deep reply, tone less faltering than one would anticipate. If Whistler didn’t know any better, he’d think he sounded detached.

“Physical damage or not, he’s struggling. You said this suckhead came off as some _former master_ … If that’s the case, bet’cha it unlocked some dark memories for the kid,” he answered, setting the x-ray prints on the chest beside where the hybrid sat. “This means there’s no chance of avoiding this Traumatic Stress Disorder… It’s here and rearing its ugly head whether we like it or not. All we can do now it watch his back and hope he’s stronger than he looks.”

“How much do you know about all this?”

“Not nearly enough… You’ve known him far longer than I have; anything he does that seems the least bit off, we’ll keep a log of,” Whistler suggested. “We’ll look into the changes and see about a fix.”

“Fourteen years, I was told… That’s enough to break even the greatest of mankind, let alone a boy. How high could the chance of recovery be…”

“If he lasted _fourteen years_ , I’d say his chances are damn good,” the old man smirked, ignoring adversity on the being seated a ways away as he stepped back to the cracked doorway.

“Whistler,” Blade called, careful not to disturb the resting form on the bed with his tone. Stopping short of the exit, the elder turned his eyes uselessly in his direction, raising a grayed brow. “You have those cameras up?”

“… Not all of them--.”

“Tsk… You’re slackin’ off, old man,” he cut off, the faintest of smirks on his weary face.


	11. All Along the Watch Room

If the lights hadn’t been on for him to see for himself, Whistler would’ve actually considered the possibility of the Daywalker wearing the concrete flooring to nothing over the past three days. He’d paced the same trail numerous times over the hours of his watch shifts, and, through the eyes that failed to be covered by his lost shades, the old man could almost see the thoughts reeling behind the anxious movements. 

Standing in the doorway, he watched the thousandth step along the familiar path of the bedside, worry clouding his aged eyes. For years, it’d been just the two of them, Eric Brooks and Abraham Whistler versus a world of suckheads, and they had both preferred it that way; lesser the party, the lesser the risk. They were both well-trained, resistant, and experienced in their positions, never having to fear much for the other. This was all completely new; this worrying over the third man, more so for the old man than anyone, who, until weeks ago, couldn’t pick anyone named ‘Scud’ out of a line-up. He hadn’t known what may have caused the hybrid to seemingly warm up to the kid, particularly with his spiraling history of vampiric siding. All he could do was bide his time and hope the little shit came out of this alright, as Blade would be quick to follow.

“Eric; shift’s over,” he said quietly, taking a sharp breath as the foot falls ceased. “I can take it from here…”

There was a short pause, as if the younger considered staying and relieving Whistler of yet another watch, but the next spoken words were nothing the old man expected. “Seventy-two hours,” came the deep, drawn voice that hadn’t seen a break in many shifts. “He’s been out cold; hasn’t even stirred. It’s been even longer, maybe weeks, since he’s eaten, and the doctor we called said not to even bother having her come till he was awake. With nothing on his side, how likely is it for him to wake up, of his own strength, and come through this?”

“You didn’t give up on me while I was out cold in some vat of blood for a couple ‘a years; you’re not gonna give up on this kid ‘cause he went a little comatose, are ya?”

“Never said I was giving up,” the younger spoke, lifting his dusty coat from the foot of the bed. “I’ll be out during your shift. Keep yourself armed and alert at all times until I return, you got me? All weapons are loaded in their stations.”

“The Hell are you going?” Whistler’s brows furrowed , though he made no hesitation to step out of the Daywalker’s way. “Ya need to take a breather or somethin’, kid?”

“No,” was the only answer at first as the coat was slid into place on his shoulders; God how he longed to have his shades as well. “I’m gonna wake him up.”

***

It was nearing the third hour into the droning watch shift, the book Whistler had found while rummaging through one of Josh’s bags they’d salvaged from the last workshop over the last few uneventful days was at its end. He’d closed one cover to the other, staring with only moderate interest at the orange, yellow, and white of the cover-- _The Catcher in the Rye_ being looked over a number of times, enough that ‘catcher’ began to look less and less like a real word and he was thinking over whether or not it was even spelled correctly—before he heard the first of movement in what seemed like eons. There were careful, quiet steps thudding lightly over the concrete outside, sounding much like the one’s he’d grown used to hearing in the times before there was ever a Josh in the picture. Setting down the novel, the old man’s hands went for the silver-loaded semi-automatic on the chest at his side, the safely making an obnoxious pop as it locked into place. The steps ceased for a moment, picking up after a few missed heartbeats on the old man’s account. He’d been decently sure it was Eric up to that point, but what need have Blade have to stop at the cock of a gun?

He wished himself parallel to the door, staring forward to it so as to see any movement by the crack of light below the entrance, instead of being perched along the wall that held the entry. He cursed himself.

***

The streets were dark as clouds continuously rolled in, bringing the thunder storm into another hour or so of a booming serenade. Half of the town had lost electric by then, leaving all the street lamps to cast no light over the sleepy homes around.

The rain that pummeled down onto the Daywalker’s car did nothing to faze him. His train of thought stuck heavily to its tracks, reeling for any ways of bringing aid back to the fully operational facility in the slums. The idea of raiding a hospital had crossed his mind, but he’d be the first to admit he’d have no idea what he was looking for, nor even what it did. Since that thought, no others had crossed hi—

The phone resting on the passenger’s seat tore his attention from inside as it rang loudly in the silent cab, his hand quick to fetch it in hopes of shutting it up. When he saw the single ‘W’ displayed on the screen, a change Scud had obviously done previously to his contacts, he flipped it open and gave only the slightest phrase of acknowledgement before he was cut off.

“Get back here.”


	12. History's Repitition

“We’ve reached the main entrance; secure to proceed?” the deep voice fed into the microphone at his collar, back pressed to the sharp, grimy siding.

“Secure. The Daywalker is approaching 3 miles out of the hazard zone at a rate of 65. We’ve got plenty of clearance, Dade; move’em in,” came the feminine reply through each of the ear transmitters; the only motivation the four listeners needed as they ripped open the chains restricting the truck door.

They poured in, like silent spawns of Hell striding farther and deeper into the facility. Their footfalls existed only quietly throughout the warehouse, careful eyes finding no movement amongst the bright light.

Flanking left, Dade approached a series of doorways, slowing his gait to a steady, observant pace. One of the rooms were open, the entrance most apparently shouldered through as it lay in splinters on the floor. It revealed only a disheveled bedding set and, much to the dark man’s dismay, featured a layer of ash scattered over the concrete floor.

Swallowing hard, he stepped past the doorway, on his way to the second when he heard the soft click ahead. 

_Gotcha._

He stopped himself, turning to the trio dispersed at opposing sections of the open work area, gaining questionable gazes from cool eyes. Giving a short jut of his head to the door, he met their eager movements with a dead smile, hands itching against the hilts of his blades.

********************************************************

“ ‘Get back here?’ What happened?” the Daywalker was quick to reply, car screeching against the asphalt as it rounded across the double median. 

“There’s something outside—I don’t know how many,” came Whistler’s hushed voice, his phone, the one he’d insisted he didn’t need, pressed tight between his shoulder and ear.

“Outside the building?”

“Outside the _room._ They’re, or it’s, a _quiet_ fucker too. Damn near thought it was you. You need to be here now. I can protect myself, you know that, but this kid? I don’t know, Eric…With him down--.”

“I’ll be there; keep what you can at bay and **stay with the boy.** What weapons have you got?” He couldn’t lay his boot far enough on the accelerator to ease his thoughts. 

“Two semi-autos, a few blades, and that UV spotlight,” answered the old man, eyes darting around the vulnerable room. “That bag of Josh’s is in here too—I think there were a few grenades in there, last I checked…”

“Good, keep’em close; on you, if you can.”

“This isn’t my first time, kid.”

“No, but it’s your first time in a long time doing it alone. How close are they, can you tell?” Blade questioned, trying to map the situation. He steadied his breathing, focusing on the reply he never heard from the other end of the line. His nerves settled right back on edge, his brows furrowing. “Whistler, what is it?”

Again, no answer awaited him.

Not until the sharp crash sounded and the line fell dead.

**********************************************************

Cracking one of his heavy eyes open, the view all-too bright and blurry, he felt the garbled groan at the back of his throat. His head spun with a certain thickness that suggested a deep, angry throb he couldn’t yet feel, trying to steady it as it swayed from side-to-side. A dull ring buzzed in his ears, the mingle of grease and dust as it wafted in and out of reach was a familiar scent to him, and alerting him to, so far, the only sense that seemed to work properly. 

His form shifted, his back aching with the uncomfortable hunched over position he’d been set in for Heaven knows how long, finding his arms bound close behind him. _So much for getting up,_ he scoffed in his head, giving one short, weak jerk of his hands against the restraints in a flop defiance. The surface he sat upon jumped inconsiderably, but just enough to tell him he was seated at one of the work room’s chairs, hands tied to the back of it tightly. _Great._

He groaned a distorted curse, forcing his eyes open wide in a second attempt at sight for any clue what’d taken place to leave him in this fashion; such a vulnerable position. His vision was hazy in the blinding white light, no doubt cast by their own UV lamp display scavenged from their last hideaway, so when he heard the soft footfalls, he didn’t even care to look. He was reminded of the invasion only a moment before he felt the hand on his shoulder, the cool skin bringing a surprised shiver down his spine, mind flooding with alert signals that would only prove useless in his vulnerability. Countless thoughts came flooding in at once, overwhelming him with the worst of timing. _Where was Blade? Was he alive? Was the kid okay? Was he alone? Am I turning?_ They just kept coming until one halted the flow, curious enough to stick in the center of attention.

_How could a creature stand before these combusting lights?_

No vampire, he was sure thus far, could take a little UV treatment, let alone greet it with open arms. Not even the Reapers, designed to wean out the weaknesses the blood-suckers were left with, could take a Sunday stroll if they cared to; they were all chained to the darkness like frightened children, save for the one-of-a-kind beast he’d come to know; Blade, the Daywalker. Surely if it could happen once, history would repeat itself.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he opened them in a series of blinks that began to clear his vision. The hand slid from his shoulder, the form cloaked fully in black sliding into view between the harsh lamps and his line of sight. The male silhouette wore a uniform much the same as Nyssa and Asad had in their initial appearance save for the lack of mask and a single glove over his left hand; if not for Eric’s word on the matter of Damaskinos’ House being left in smoldering ruins, he’d have believed the man had been sent by the Overlord himself.

“Humans,” the deep, accented voice startled him in his daze. “You’re such… _Gentle_ creatures. It’s adorable, really, watching you scramble for your crosses and Holy water; your stakes and your Daywalker. You used to be quite the hunter back in your day; feared. Now you’re just another crippled old man, aren’t you? Doomed to fall back to the position of working for someone else… Someone _better._ Even then, you’ve been replaced by someone skilled, someone younger. You see that replacement, don’t you; how little you’ve been reduced to? Dear Whistler, don’t you fret, for I am here only to help you.”

“Help me?” the older spat, head lulling to eye the vamp. “The Hell can you do, cha-chi?”

“Pest control. That child is only slowing the two of you down because, no matter his plead and your own partner’s belief, he’ll _always_ be the familiar. Do you really think he’s afraid and traumatized? You’d be wrong, Mr. Whistler, if you told me yes. Anyone can shut their eyes and play comatose; can whimper a few times and call themselves afraid. The boy is no more a friendly to you than you are to me; I’m surprised you’re not dead after sitting in that room so long with him—He could’ve slit your throat, cowered in the corner until his precious hybrid came home, and claimed there were visitors--.”

“Dade!” came the rustle over the airwaves. “The Daywalker’s been turned around; he’s heading back to you! Jesus, where’ve you been the last hour?”

“Business. How clear are we?”

“You have little more than an hour; don’t fuck this up!” she huffed, eyes careful of the streets below. “Tell me the boy’s awake.”

“I’ll check on my men, but until then, keep me posted. I want to be gone before his eyes land on this place,” the suckhead commanded, turning from the old man’s gaze. “See you in a bit, Abraham. Don’t forget what I’ve told you.”

“Lies, that’s what,” Whistler snarled, though he couldn’t dismiss his anxiety as the pale being disappeared behind the wall of lights.

*********************************************************

It felt too late as the car rolled to a stop, the rain pouring ever steadily from the Heavens. The door slammed shut, harder than it should’ve behind him, and he was to the warehouse in an instant, pulling the unchained slat wide open.

The guard lights nearly blinded his unshaded eyes, quickly moving around them to see a form trapped in the halo of white. He was anxiety stricken; if this were any _creature’s_ invasion, it sure as Hell wasn’t _it_ seated before those lights without being dust by now…

“Whistler--,” he called, stepping to the protectoral controls. Dislocating the power source, he squinted past the haze of orange the dying light gave, the long, grayed hair hanging over the worn face. Winding around the machine’s mass, he paused by the old man’s side, kneeling to shake him. “Get up.”


	13. The Screen

“Valm—Update,” Dade called, the ear piece giving a static rise. The sound of pummeling rain broke through, mingled with the barely audible pants as she ran for, going on, the fifth hour. He knew she could no longer hear him for the raging storm above her head, the thunder booming over any of his words. 

“What is it?” came his closest man’s puzzlement, his hands full with the twisting and wreathing boy. “Valm alright?” 

“She’s _fine_ , just fucking deaf is all. It’s been too long since her last check-in… He could be close by now. We need to get moving as soon as possible, so you three pack up. I’ll get the old man.”

“We don’t need him, just kill him before time runs out and we’re dust,” another called, stuffing file after file into the canvas duffle bag. 

“Who makes the decisions, Amio? That’s right. We need him alive to tell the Daywalker about the brat’s little ‘act,’ alright? Or else this was all for nothing because that fucker’ll be coming for us. He lives,” the darker re-established, eying them over before flinging the door closed with a great _**slam**_ that threatened to crumble the hinges. “ _Idiots_ ,” he muttered, eyes flicking about the wide room.

“Whistler, dear sir, I--,” he paused when his line of sight came to rest on the unlit UV lights, the seat beyond them unoccupied. The short gulp his throat gave barely registered to his brain, the footsteps carrying him to the scene quiet and careful as he dared not even breathe past his pursed lips. His hands came down to his hip, tightening around the ostentatious hilt of his blade, helping to calm his nerves as much as any inanimate object could. Though quiet and shaky, he forced his words through his lips, eyes careful of movement around him. “Valm,” he tried once more. “Update.”

The static rose to his ears just as before, this time unaccompanied with the rhythmic drumming of rainfall around, replaced by the hum of an air ventilation system. The sound seemed to echo into the ear piece, back and forth like two children trying to speak the same line at once. One hand left the butt of his sword, coming to wrap around the microphone at his collar; instantly, the repetitive lull shrank to a single solid sound flowing from the opposing gear’s end. A thought sunk in, bringing his face skyward and his breathing to another peak as his sight found the oversized industrial fans working above. The white noise had been low enough to bring no attention of his to it, but now, it was all he could hear.

If Valm, or at least her gear, was here, he knew the rest of the story.

Even so, the screams that erupted behind startled him, his hand reflexively unsheathing his sword as he whirled to the nothingness lying in wait. The door he’d left not but moments ago flickered bright around the doorframe before dying down to black, the calls of horror fading alongside. When all was quiet once more, the fans above that had appeared nonexistent before now seemed to boom overhead with each turn on their axes, settling an eerie chill over the icy being.

“Amio--?” he called, voice unsure. He came closer in slow, easy steps, eying around the cracks of the entrance. “Amio, Rheiker,” he spoke again, strength returning to the tone. “Wesner?”

There came no answer from within the walls. His ears strained over the white noise, catching the soft sounds of shuffling as he inched closer, though he couldn’t tell if they were really there or if he’d made himself desperate enough to hope.

Just as soon as the overbearing quiet placed the catastrophic idea of his team having been slaughtered, the entire room began to boom around him. Smoke clouded his vision, fragments of something once whole seconds ago smacked against his unprepared form, driving him a few stumbling steps back. The powerful cracks around him seemed ceaseless as they sounded, rattling his eardrums and shaking his senses useless. He’d been trained plenty enough, but never for this; never for a situation when he was out of control over it all. 

The first thing that registered was his face connecting with the dusty floor below, a crushing weight against his back that disappeared as suddenly as it came. The second was the emptiness of his grasp, his sword having been strewn away upon his landing.

“Daywalker, huh?” the hidden voice spat. “I was beginning to think I was the only one.”

“So you—,” Dade coughed, the wind beginning to return to him as he pushed himself from the floor. “You’re Blade. Show yourself, brethren.”

He saw it this time, the blur of black leather as it whipped by, driving his skull again into the concrete. How had Damaskinos ever thought even Dade could keep in control of this situation? “I wouldn’t make that mistake if I were you. Don’t consider me one of you.”

“But you are, whether you choo—.”

He was hauled from the ground, thrown against the thick wall where the dark knight was quick to keep him.

“I know what I am just as well as I know what you are. We may be similar in our vampiric halves, but make no mistake that as men, you’re anything like me, got it? You’re just another sleazebag with an addiction,” the dominating hybrid growled, pressing a stake to the uniform clad chest. The younger didn’t move, his face casting no light on his thoughts. This was far worse a case than his usual runs, Blade knew. This could be the only other of his kind—Though it didn’t matter a bit if this was what he was used for. He could see he was far too young to understand the entirety of his capabilities, giving yet another upper hand to the vampire’s nightmare. 

“Call it what you will, Blade, saving your humans doesn’t make you any less like me—like them. I have the notion to ask; if we met differently, in broad daylight out in the city, might we have acted otherwise? Better? More civilized? Might you have trusted me?” he questioned, eyes careful despite their frantic state. As the smoke cleared, the room around appeared untouched by the explosions he experienced earlier, the only evidence of an occurrence being the door blown to bits over the floor. So the sounds, the screen of fog, had all been a hoax he’d been naïve enough to panic over. _Stupid_ , he patronized himself, eyes flicking back. He studied this man before him, receiving the response he’d expected: silence. “What of this visit has angered you enough to kill the only other of your kind?”

“You touched him, the innocent. You brought him into this fight.”

“Surely you’re not speaking of the old man, as _he_ brought _you_ into this. So the boy then? Christ, he’s the _reason_ I’m here. I’m warning you of him.”

“Warning me? Of a kid who can bench press a twig?” Blade scoffed, raising his brows. “Are you outta your—.”

“He’s a liar, you know,” the paler interrupted, expression bored and tensed form relaxing. “It surprised me to see him fool you for so long, but then again—he wasn’t Damaskinos’ prize for nothing.”

“Don’t even start with feeding me bullshit.”

“Bullshit? But you seem so intrigued, Daywalker; you’ve forgotten the stake in hand for my world-shattering news of the child’s double betrayal. Think about it, Blade, he spent _fourteen years_ with the Overlord and dropped him like a stranger. What do you think he’d do to someone he spent a mere _two_ years with? The math isn’t hard,” Dade shrugged, watching the other glance to the silver rod in his palm, situating the grip tighter. “Heed the warning, brethren. He’s no innocent chil--.”

It only took a shove to end the twisting words; the sentence after sentence that hinged themselves on his twitching nerves. He dropped the other he’d kept to the wall, as if wiping his hands of him by the action. “I’ve heard about enough,” he muttered despite the lifeless being before him, slouched on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He tensed as he stepped into the bunker door below the warehouse, built for the Red Scare conditions years ago, before he’d even been thought of. Whistler was knelt awkwardly at the boy’s side, his braced leg posing a problem for his stance as he pulled him into an embrace. He’d never shown such kindness to Eric in all their years, but the way the youngest shook, so violently and constant, he couldn’t blame him for the uncharacteristic gesture. It was reassuring to the hybrid in its own way to see the act, however small, between the two. Whistler was his basis for trust; quick to call any bullshit on whomever he felt had it coming, and odds were, he’d be right. He could restore some hope in Scud through him.

“Josh,” he said simply, watching how the small form jumped, alert to his presence all-too suddenly. He pulled his head from Whistler’s shoulder to peer at the advancing Daywalker, his pinched form relaxing as he saw the familiar face. The fear in his blue orbs, however, didn’t fade, instead posing a question Blade was hesitant to answer. In that moment, the sight alone was enough to convince even him that the news had been a lie; nothing more than one last attempt to kill the one the House of Damaskinos died loathing. “It’s over now. This time, it’s true.”


	14. Getting By

The calendar by his desk was filled with rows of x’s, the days ticked off as they grew into nights. If he flipped through it, as he often did when his work was done and all was quiet, he’d find four weeks and six days of safety; nearly five weeks away from the last attempt on his life.

It should have been satisfying; all the more reassurance he needed, but that didn’t stop the quakes that wracked his body when he tried to sleep come dawn. He could tame the shake of his hands long enough to fool anyone he pleased—anyone but himself. 

“Josh,” came the deep boom from behind, startling despite the soft tone. The smaller jumped, the date book dropping from his grasp to smack against the floor.

“Need somethin’, B? An EDTA refill?” he asked, spinning in his chair to swipe up the item, placing it back on the wall. He’d already reached for the drawer the cartridges lay beyond, prepared in advance thanks to a surplus of down time, when Blade stopped him, hand resting on his shoulder. 

“We need to talk… I think you already know that.”

Scud hesitated, sitting up and away from the half open drawer. He’d been expecting this. “Well—Shoot, B,” he encouraged, watching the other step away.

“You’ve got Whistler pretty well fooled, I’ll give you that. It’s not something easily done,” the hybrid began, leaning back against the desk.

“But not you, right?” he asked quietly, quick to show defeat before the dark knight.

Blade flashed him a stern look unconsciously. “I don’t think you ever could… And that’s not an invitation. I can hear the sleepless days, the pacing and the crying. I see you shake when Whistler turns away, when you think all eyes are blind. It’s gotten better since the attack, but not by much. So all I want from you now is what will bring an end to this.”

There was a pause as Scud lowered his head. In his state, he’d underestimated Blade; _the Daywalker_ that never missed a beat. He was more ashamed to have done that than to have failed in his mission of masking his struggle. He’d known the hybrid too long to have done this.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, voice frail. “Nothing works.” All the old antics—the tricks that helped him as a familiar to get through day-to-day—they were useless to him now.

“We’ll think of something.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come daybreak, he was thudding up the stairs again, shoes heavy against the metal structure. As he cleared the landing, turning to the series of rooms they’d settled into in the weeks previous, he caught a glimpse of the Daywalker standing in the doorway of his room from the corner of his eye. He paused to glance back at him in question, brows furrowed ever slightly. Not a word left the older’s lips; he simply pushed away from the door frame, turning into the blackened room beyond.


	15. Not Only

He hesitated in the walkway, staring blankly into the black of the room where the Daywalker had disappeared to. Despite the challenges of the previous weeks, the hardships that began to toll even on the hybrid himself, that smile he’d managed seemed genuine, even if there had only been a glimpse of it. 

A small weight lifted and Scud felt the sides of his mouth tug upward as he padded to the open doorway, the darkness engulfing him as he stepped past the line of light.

“B?” he said quietly, head turning about despite his inability to see; the light peeping in from the windows of the main room failing to reach this raven paradise. His eyes scanned the dark spaces, noticing the disappearing sliver of light where the door was closing. He smiled softly, his arms coming in front of him, searching the emptiness sleepily for the Daywalker. 

There was a faint warning, a sound the approaching would usually never let be heard, before Scud was buried in the arms of the Daywalker. There was no armor here; the weapons were rested on tabletops and the leather was hung for the night to come, leaving room for the comforts of contact. 

As a familiar when he was a child, embraces from suckheads weren’t necessarily uncommon. When all those of his own kind were locked in cages for the day, a stray vamp – a _sympathizer_ , they enjoyed deeming themselves – would bring false comfort in the shape of enfoldment. The gesture was one he grew annoyed of, finally rejecting it from anyone who wouldn’t kill him for it. Even now, the idea of it was hesitant, but there was one solid difference here, just as there had been with Whistler.

Blade was no suckhead. 

Warmth flooded over his face as it was pressed against the exposed shoulder, his hands resting against the sides of the larger’s frame, his fingers weaving the fabric of the dark undershirt in his grip. There was no chill up his spine; no ice against the skin of his arms that remained exposed by the cut off B.P.R.D shirt. There were no similarities of the two interactions, and no memories began to flood back to him. This wasn’t repetition. This was _new_. A step forward. And there was no House to take that progress away.

“You’re staying here today,” Blade spoke softly, the deep rumble of his chest comforting against the smaller. “You’ve been alone far too long.”

Josh nodded lightly against his shoulder, eyes fallen half-lidded from his sleepless weeks. Had he been more conscious, he may have wondered what had brought the hybrid down a notch; what had pulled the affection from within the very depths of his binary soul. He’d only seen this few times before in his near three years at the Daywalker’s side, and it was a brief glimpse before he appeared heartless again. Perhaps there was something there that Eric refused to acknowledge in the time when Scud could be an enemy just as easily as he appeared friendly, something that he swallowed to keep the operation to find Whistler going and to keep his own being intact. If this were true, as he could only hope, perhaps this human side belonged to him, the one he saved from the tip of insanity.

“You ready for bed?”

Josh nodded once more, the groggy haze lifting from his head a bit as he was swept from his feet. He allowed the Daywalker to carry him to the much unused bed, sighing softly at the plush covers that met with the back of his body. 

The mattress shifted, and the sensation of kisses over his neck overwhelmed him, the strong arms forming around him once more. Scud gasped in his surprise, hands fumbling for something of grasp. 

This was not only his last night alone.

This was his first where he knew he belonged.


End file.
